Original Sin
by Borath
Summary: When a mortal screams, it screams pain. When a spirit screams, it screams power. Malik's found a way to exploit this, and plans to use Bakura to finally gain the forbidden Pharaoh's Power. Chapter 3
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Yugioh.  Simple as.

Warnings: Swearing, torture, graphic violence and a creeping insanity hidden in words.

A/Ns: This is something that I've been toying with for some time and have written a bit of in dribs and drabs.  I'm curious more than anything as to how something of this style would be received, so I'm offering this 'taster chapter' to see what sort of response I get.  Hope you enjoy it.

**Original Sin**

****

Chapter 1

The sound of pain being inflicted is such a beautiful thing, a gorgeous concerto of shrieks and howls before finally climaxing in the famous 'death rattle'.  In this respect, the past month has been wonderfully musical for me.  I have never composed so much in so little time.  But that's down to having the actions of the past month assigned to me.  

I resented that, I think.  No… No, yes, I did resent it.  No longer in control of my own actions and yet my dictated actions were enjoyable.  So did I resent it with reason?  Damnit, this keeps happening; thoughts spiralling around and around, seemingly further from any solid conclusion.  Not that I care.  I seem to have cared less and less over the past few weeks.  I should care now.  I'm busy.  I'm busy with this task.  This job.  This purpose for being.

It's now quiet aside from the little whimpering noises it makes in the dark.  No, wait, I'm in the dark.  The whimpering creature lies huddled in the only space of light I have granted it.  It's scared, has been for a while.  I find that exciting.  I put that fear in it.  I hid in the shadows, oh so quiet for days and days, and now I bring it to a climax.

Stepping back into the light, grime and dead insects banking up at the sides of my shoes, I approach it once more.  Ah, how valiant.  It rears up against me, at least as much as it can, knees sunken into the filth and hands slack at its thighs.  Its clothes lie in tatters, congealed blood just about holding the leathery shreds together.  I want to change that.

My loosening and tightening again about the metal grip, assuring myself of its solidity, I swing it about behind my head, the long, glittering, string-of-pearls tail arcing with it.  The creature flinches.  I haven't even done anything yet.  I'll teach it to wait, to be good and patient and act like it's supposed to.

Snapping my hand forward over my shoulder, the beaded whip lashes out again.  It cracks with a sick sound against its skin and it makes a howling, strangled kind of noise, wrenching against the bindings that are bolted to the floor.  Sixty-three balls shattered its skin.  I counted them this morning.  Funny number.  Certainly bloody enough, but still a bit odd.  Sixty-five I'd understand, but sixty-three…

Damnit, it's screeching again looking up at me, screeching.  Desperately.  Wrenching at its bindings, its bloody eyes click past me, its gaze running over and past the beaded whip raised to strike again to look at something over my shoulder.  

Oh, its trinket.  It's nailed through the chain to the wall behind me.  Did I do that?  I must have.  There's no one else here aside from me and the creature.  I could be mistaken though.  I don't remember very recent things well.  I remember how this all started though, yes, quite clearly.  I was in the dark, in my own home drinking a liquid that scorched my throat but warmed my belly.  Yes, that's right…

*****

The mood of the room could only be described as brooding.  The two small lamps that struggled valiantly to penetrate the gloom had been smothered with material, and a sombre yet penetrating orchestral piece crept through the small apartment.  The lone occupant, young only in appearance, seemed to be absorbing the quiet music from where he had dropped himself.  Sprawled in the poorly stuffed armchair, his head lay inertly over the top cushion so that straggling white hair cascaded down in an unhindered descent.

His left hand was lax, fingers spread in a natural yet static manner and his wrist limp.  His other hand loosely held a half empty glass of a clear liquid, the container being suspended only by the grabber-like shape of his fingers about its rim.  Eye's closed and mind gradually shutting down for the night, Bakura had little intention of drinking from it again.

An audaciously loud series of thumps against the front door snapped him abruptly from the pleasant stage of pre-slumber that he had been seconds away from achieving, and Bakura rose brusquely with a suitable amount of anger against his visitor for it.  Approaching the door quickly, he changed his mind about opening it as he reached for the latch, deciding instead to wait until they demonstrated such impatience again before he reacted.  

He presumed it to be a neighboring resident; no one else knew he was here.  After abandoning living with Ryou and their 'father' through exasperation and general aggravation several weeks ago, Bakura had managed to stay temporarily with a wide enough variety of people to be able to make himself and his skills useful in various ways, and as a result had built himself a tidy sum of money on which to live.  He supplemented this through his profession of parting certain valuables from their owners, naturally, and this had allowed him complete independency from Ryou.

This newfound independency was still quite novel to him, meaning that he could enjoy it even more.  He relished being able to return to his own home in whatever state he wished without being faced with a concerned or fearful look from his Hikari, which usually did nothing more than irritate him.  However, he noted as the thumping began again, living alone did have its downsides.  Having to deal with every mortal that visited himself was something that he had yet to develop the patience for.

A different noise to the thumping began, a hacking sound of metal being driven into wood.  His tether run through now entirely, Bakura flung open the door just as the blade of metal swung down again.  Stepping back so as to avoid being struck, Bakura glared through his fringe at his visitor.  Tucking the Rod back into his belt and adjusting the thick book under his arm, Malik glared back.

With idle curiosity Bakura glanced about the door to see the damage, glaring harder at the blond Egyptian before grumbling for him to enter.  Malik did so quickly, instantly moving to the center of the living room and looking about himself with interest.  "Nice place," he commented wryly, placing the book on the low table before crossing his arms and tipping his hip to one side.

Slamming the door behind him, Bakura strode towards Malik with the intention of punching him.  Remembering the Rod though, he relented, settling for staring at him.  "How did you know I was here?" he demanded after a moment.

"Word gets round.  A white-haired arsehole isn't something people miss," Malik replied with a sneer.  

Scowling, Bakura mirrored Malik's aggressive stance before glancing at the book.  It looked old and held a certain aura of power, as if its pages held untold mysteries within their faded confines.  

"And you came for what?  Cup of tea and a friendly chat?" He asked irritably, bitter that Malik had been the first person to track him down here.  He mentally conceded that it was better than the Pharaoh knocking at his door.

Unexpectedly, Malik knelt down into the rug beneath the coffee table and opened the heavy casing of the book he had brought with him, intently thumbing through the pages.  "Actually I need your help for something."  He looked up now, his index finger planted squarely in the center of his desired page.  

Dark eyes fixed on Bakura's glowing with barely-contained excitement, drunkenly veiled by an obvious power-high.  "A way to attack the Pharaoh, and take his power."

His laughter escaping as a snort of contempt, Bakura dropped back down into the battered chair opposite Malik.  Rubbing at his face as his gaze danced about the room in disbelief, he finally looked back to the young man, and the book.  

"A way that's doomed to fail?  Like last time?  You're deluded, Malik.  No longer you're being babysat twenty-four-seven by a grown man," he muttered, already tired of this conversation.  It was a clone of many conversations they'd had in the past, all predestined to fail.  The book was a new twist though.

Malik scowled like a petulant child but was obviously not going to be deterred, lifting the book by the spine with his thumb on the page and handing it to Bakura.  Idly curious, Bakura took the proffered object and looked over the page.  

He instantly recognized that it was a spell; nothing particularly complicated or interesting.  A basic healing spell wherein specific energies were taken from herbs to apply to wounds to encourage a faster response.  It was like injecting a serum into a blood vessel as opposed to a muscle.

"And?" Bakura prompted, dropping the book back onto the table.  Malik's face twitched, seemingly from seeing the item treated roughly.

He restrained it though, his mouth becoming a thin line as he did so before curling at what corner.  It was the forced half-smile.  "I've found a way to adapt that spell to help us."

"And I've found a way to get rich dancing as a gypsy in England," Bakura scoffed, not at all convinced by Malik's quiet confidence in this new spell, this new scheme.  It was nothing new.  He'd been less convinced of more promising spells than this.  "And what's this 'us'?  Where exactly do I come into this?"

"As I said before: I need your help," Malik stated with unnerving patience.  Standing and collecting up the book in one motion, he moved to sit on the low table inches from Bakura, holding it open in his lap.  "I've found what the flaw was in what I was doing before, why it was going wrong."  

He left this sentence hanging, building up what he believed to be a suitable about of suspense before continuing.  Bakura just looked bored.  "I've been trying to take the Pharaoh's power all at once.  I've tried winning it, killing him for it, threatening him for it, but every time it has been impossible to achieve my goals."

"That's because he's the Game King.  He's not supposed to lose anything, and that includes his 'Power'," Bakura droned, his expression not changing in the slightest.  

Malik raised a silencing finger, a familiar flash of excitement appearing in his eyes. It made him look insane again.  "No, he *can* lose it, but only a little at a time.  He must himself sacrifice his *ability* to hold onto this power, but the power itself can be drained away."

This idea had never occurred before: The legendary Pharaoh's Power being a reservoir rather than a lump sum had never come up.  It would certainly be a useful thing to know if it were true, and it was sheer confusion over its feasibility that drove Bakura to question it, and how it could be exploited to suit their needs.

A slender finger tapped the dried ink of the spell firmly, if only out of excitement if not for emphasis.  "I can adapt this to work against him.  It's designed to steal energy from plants, so it will work to steal specific energies from humans, or spirits.  However, it needs a catalyst, and that's where I need you."

Bakura was now honestly intrigued.  Malik saying that his help was actually needed was a rarity.  Usually he was just invited along for the ride, or used as some sort of pawn for a short time.  "What do you want me to do?"

Malik appeared thoughtful for a moment, seeking the words to explain.  "For this spell to work from plants, the stems need to be stripped and cut.  It exposes them, which lets the magic penetrate them.  However it will not work this way for a person.  That isn't a problem though, as when a Millennium Spirit is injured, its own energies flare to aid in healing.  It exposes itself.  It is simply a case of snatching that free energy from the air and storing it until we have it all."

Bakura nodded slowly.  It seemed a simple enough idea, too simply in fact.  He knew what Malik had come to him for, and he didn't mind it.  Torturing the Pharaoh was something he could view as recreational given the opportunity.  And he could understand why Malik couldn't do it himself no matter how much he wanted to.  The Egyptian wouldn't be able to come within thirty yards of the Pharaoh let alone do any real damage.  He on the other hand had the advantage of being able to infiltrate the group.

"You want me to disguise myself as Ryou, and inflict as much physical abuse on the Pharaoh as I can manage?" Bakura asked with a smirk, leaning back in the chair and regarding Malik down the length of his nose.

Nodding, Malik closed the book slowly and set it down beside him.  "Yes, and I want to use you as a conduit as well."  Bakura frowned at that, less than enthusiastic about being used, particularly in a way that he didn't understand.

"The nature of the altered spell will mean that as you harm the Pharaoh, his energy will pass through you and to the original caster of the spell: me.  It will cause you no harm and it isn't avoidable as it will naturally reach out to the inflictor.  I just thought I'd let you know," Malik explained, smiling thinly upon the latter in a manner than Bakura found most unsettling.  He chose not to focus on that now though.  He could muse about the finer points of Malik's tone of voice later.

"I'm going to want something for all this.  You want this done properly and that comes at a price," Bakura stated, leaning forward slightly.  His hands met in his lap, his fingers interlacing delicately.

Malik quirked a brow although he didn't seem surprised.  "The Rod?" 

Bakura smiled, bemused to find himself so predictable.  "Yes, and a slice of the glory when the Pharaoh is reduced to a mere shadow."

The Egyptian considered this and nodded, extending a hand and an indulgent smile.  "We have a deal?"

Bakura's eyes darted to the hand back to the face of its bearer.  He saw the excitement, the intensity and the insanity in the eyes, took in the twitch at the corner of his mouth and the stillness throughout his features.  Grabbing the hand and continuing the forward motion of his arm, he shook it once and released it immediately after.

"Agreed."

****

Thoughts?  First impressions?  Worth continuing?


	2. Chapter 2

Well, I'm ecstatic with the feedback I got for the first chapter, and as 'Domination' is going nowhere at the moment (and shan't be until March at this rate) I finally finished up this chapter.  Hope you like it, and thanks to those of you who reviewed for your comments.

Original Sin:  Chapter 2 

I did a lot of things after that night that I wouldn't have normally, even more so recently.  At least I think so.  I'm having a lot of these memories recently, funny, clashing memories that make me feel as if I was in two places when they happened.  Every time one slithers into my skull and distracts me from what I'm doing, some instinct begins to yell a loud warning at me.  I don't know why and I can't figure out what's wrong, but everything else seems all right so I'll keep ignoring it.  

I'm too busy for distractions like that now anyway.  Far too busy.  I'm fine.  I spent a long time planning and now I reap the rewards of that.  Nothing went wrong.  Nothing can go wrong.  I *planned*.

Plans are good.  They insure.  Hours spent in a warm room with warm drinks on a cold belly, nothing but the pen's nib scratching at unpolished paper ensure everything works out to the last detail.  I worked out every day, every word, every Latin equivalent to the very last detail.

I worked out the distance between the two pins in the ground that keeps its arms down and away from my throat.  It doesn't look like it has arms anymore now.  Just limbs.  Cold, bloody limbs that were too scrawny to start with and now show bone at the joints.  Dull knives and sharp balls in my whip.  Not my fault.  Shouldn't have been so skinny to start with.

"Bakura!  Damnit, why are you doing this?"

I think it tried to shout then.  It didn't turn out too well.  There's too much blood in its mouth to let it shout.  No blood on my hands though, even though it seems there should be.  It's lost so much and yet I remain clean.  

The stench of the congealing fluid has grown over the last hour.  Become normal.  I couldn't smell it at all when we started.  Could only smell sweat and adrenaline and fear.  Broke its insides without breaking its skin first, seeing if it would break like a damn when too much had leaked out and around.  It got tired of waiting though, so I made the first crack.  And then the next.  And then the next.

The red doesn't leave it so quickly now, and in this light it's turned black.  Most of it's on the floor, bright and spread, soaking in the dirt.  It's changed colour too.  But I remain the same.  There's no evidence of the changes I've incited in this creature on me, no sign that it was I that brought it down from its perch.  

Frowning and fingering the whip's handle once more, I stalk towards it.  Making a fist, I backhand it solidly.  I'm spattered this time and it falls awkwardly to the floor, its arms trapped oddly behind it as it curls.  It lands on many open wounds, inadvertently grinding the dirt off the floor into its tender flesh.  It shouldn't have flesh.  All creatures have flesh, but this one shouldn't.  And I don't think that I should either.

****

The sound of the old pen scratching at thick paper was a comforting one; a sound of normalcy, almost peaceful in its simplicity.  Rhythmical, it fitted with the delicate symphony playing through the two small speakers, creating an atmosphere of taste and culture.  If it hadn't been his home, Bakura would have snorted in contempt at the quaint ambiance.

As it was, he found that the music made it easier for him to concentrate on the figures he was scribbling in a deceptively elegant script.  Several columns of numbers tiled the paper already, brief notes jotted by some of them in so few words that only he would be able to decipher them.  He had been doing this for an hour now and could almost taste the end of his task.  He refused to rush it though; balancing finances was not something to be done haphazardly.

Rather than renting this flat and not having anything at the end of it if he chose to leave, he was buying the place.  The fact that he had no form of 'legitimate employment' didn't deter him, and he had built up a fine sum in the week since Malik had visited him.  After a midnight raid at one of the more stately homes on the outskirts of Domino, he had been selling antiques over the Internet and reaping in a tidy sum as a result.  

It was mostly furniture with the odd sword and two paintings, and a friend had advised him quite well on this sort of trade so there was little chance of him ever being caught.  Said friend had also rigged a mind-boggling amount of firewalls and other such devices to prevent his computer being traced and hacked.  Said computer was also the result of raids and scavenging, so they couldn't identify him even if they did trace it.

He wasn't going to have time to boost his funds for a while now though, so the near future needed to be carefully planned so that he didn't make a pig's ear of his accounts or the task that Malik had set.  It wouldn't do to show anything other than good form at an art that he had all but perfected.

There would need to be tools though.  He had some here; knives, a whip, a sickle, nothing extraordinary.  More was needed to accomplish this 'mission' of his to its fullest, and that meant buying them.  He had a few ideas in mind that weren't too costly, but a lot of those would result in death, which Malik was very strict about not inducing.  Yami dying would undo all the work he had done and was therefore something that had to be avoided.  He could spill as much blood as he wanted though.

Finally, Bakura capped the pen and placed it to the side of the desk, regarding his work stoically.  It looked all right.  He hadn't gotten carried away making his list of items and he believed that he had judged quite accurately regarding their cost.  This part at least would work out fine.  He could gather these things within a few days, and then it would really kick off.

Now it was just a question of getting close enough to Yami to use his new toys.  

Getting up from the chair and leaving the paper where it was, Bakura poured himself a drink and dropped in his armchair to think, nursing the glass carefully.  It was a cheap drink but served its purpose.  Brandy would have suited the quietly contemplating atmosphere better, but this served fine.  Behind him, the music reached a new crescendo, hovering at the peak for a moment before scuttling back down into a lull with a flurry of strings.  Bakura paid it no heed, staring at the wall opposite him as if it held the answers he sought.

It had been almost a year and a half since he had last possessed Ryou and he hadn't so much as tried since then.  He hadn't had to; both Yami and himself had suddenly found themselves with bodies several months ago.  Isis had said at the time that their purpose as guardians –or at least Yami's- had expired now and that they were as free as they were going to get.  

They still had their magic and the ability to access the Shadow Realm, but now they had physical bodies.  It had taken a while to get used to, but Bakura had come to appreciate his.  Moving away from Ryou like this hadn't been an option before.

Although, it did raise the question of whether or not it was still possible for him to possess Ryou now.  His Hikari had put up an immense struggle against him the last few times he had and there was no telling how much stronger his mind had become in the last eighteen months.  It would probably have to be even more forceful now, perhaps a completely different method.  Bakura didn't know, and despite his approval of planning before acting (most of the time at least), he knew he wouldn't know until he actually tried.

Casting his eyes to the side, he noted the time before finishing his drink and placing the glass on the table.  It was late so Ryou would most likely be at home, unless he had become entangled in a relationship at some point since he last saw him.  He didn't keep tabs on his former host, so that wouldn't be surprising.  The Ring would find him in any case.  

Standing, he collected his keys and his jacket and left the flat.  The cold night air was gloriously refreshing after an hour of warm lamps and closed windows, and he breathed it with relish as he began the three-mile walk to his old home.

Inside the flat, the music played on.

****

His Hikari was definitely alone in the house.  Every light was off giving the large building a cold, deserted feeling.  His father's car was missing and the doors were locked, but that had never been a deterrent to Bakura.

Walking around to the back of the house, he came to the bottom of the honeysuckle-clad trellis and put his right boot into a familiar foothold.  He scaled this old thing so many times in the past that it had become second nature to him, something that Bakura was counting on Ryou not being aware of.  The trellis ended under a window in the hallway, yards from Ryou's room.  

Climbing up the wooden bars through leaves and sweet smelling flowers posed no challenge, and Bakura grinned when he found the window to be unlocked.  Forcing it open and easing his lithe body inside, he dropped to the carpet silently before closing the window again.  

Little explosions of excitement and anticipation danced about in his stomach and up his back but Bakura showed no sign of the feeling.  He relished the thrill of entering this house with the intent of attacking his former host, but his composure was one of a controlled and deadly creature.

Approaching Ryou's room in long strides, Bakura opened the door without breaking his pace.  Everything was in darkness save for the small amount of moonlight that filtered through the fabric of the curtains.  Ryou's slumbering form lay completely prone beneath the window, his body tipped on its side.  

Approaching the bed and deciding to wing it from here on, Bakura got a knee up on the bed and manoeuvred himself so that he was straddling his Hikari without quite touching him.  Bringing his arms up so that he was supporting himself at an awkward angle on trembling knees and quaking thighs, he quickly grasped both Ryou's wrists, twisted him onto his back and forced them above his head.

Ryou awoke with a start and gave a half shout when Bakura leaned into him, using his left forearm to pin both his hands whilst his free hand went to grasp at his skull.  Closing his eyes, Bakura concentrated on breaking those barriers.

The resistance was immense.  The force with which Bakura pushed against the mental barriers was met with an equal amount of pain to his psyche.  Trying for one solid push, he actually jerked from the resulting shock.

Ryou shuddered violently beneath him under the assault, his head forced back and his throat taunt as skin pulled tight over tendons and tubes.  His chest shuddered with the need to breath as his mind seized up in shock and his shoulders burnt from his arms being pulled in their sockets.  None of this made things easier for Bakura.

Finally, assisted by a physical scream of effort, Bakura broke through.  Everything was quiet and still.  But also isolated.  Bakura sensed nothing.  It was like being in a shell.  His Soul room was gone and Ryou's appeared to have become invisible to him.  He couldn't access anything, could barely sense Ryou's life.

A hybrid of a sigh and a growl escaped his lips, the darkened flesh pulled back into something feral from the initial battle to enter the mind in the first place.  His mouth relaxed now as did the rest of his body as his consciousness returned to its rightful place.  Ryou remained limp, his arms rolling slightly to the side when Bakura finally released his iron grip.

Flexing his fingers and sitting back on his Hikari's hip, Bakura sat in silence for a few minutes.  Ryou's barely perceptible breathing was the only sound in the room as he thought.  

He hadn't expected to fail.  He'd known that it was a possibility, but had still not expected or planned for it.  He'd have to go back to planning again before he could do anything else, at least until he got his weapons in.

Getting off the bed, Bakura gave Ryou another dry look.  He decided that he'd probably survive the night and maybe make it until noon tomorrow.  He didn't know if he'd wake up for a few days though.  A quick touch to the temple and Bakura was assured that he'd be fine.  It wouldn't have bothered him if he'd caused a haemorrhage, which it was likely he had, he'd just have seen this death as a waste.

At least Ryou wouldn't be in any condition to raise an alert for at least a week.  Plenty of time to figure something out.  

Bakura pondered this as he left the bedroom, making his way back along the hallway but opting for the stairs and the front door rather than the window and the trellis this time.  He circled and advanced on ideas all the way back to his flat, finally reaching the heavy doors as the first light of the day began to creep into existence.  And he knew what he was going to do next.  

****

I'm planning every chapter to have this sort of structure now and I've got plenty of twists already planned.  This was originally going to be my entry into Chibizoo's last fanfiction competition, but I didn't find the time to write it properly.  Basically, the entire fic has been planned and now it's just a case of me writing the majority of it and posting.  Anyway, I'm hoping you're enjoying this so far, and please leave a review to let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

Reviewer Responses:

**Pachelbel:** (Laughs) Thanks for reviewing at last!  Yes, I thought that the music was a nice touch.  It shouldn't have had such a large hand in things but it grew on me.  Might have been because I was listening to film soundtracks when writing all this out.  Yes, Bakura does have a bit of a problem now that Ryou is of no use to him.  He works around that, as you'll see soon.  And where did I say that it was Yami tied down and being tortured?  I'm not confirming or denying, but I didn't state who it was at all. ;p

Dark-Sephy: Thanks for the compliments!  Very ego-warming.  I'm glad suspense is coming across.  I'm not too sure what constitutes as 'horror' so I'm just throwing things and hoping more hit than miss. Impish Pixie: I might as well post the review: 'This scares me.'  All I can say to that is that I'm pleased. 

**Amiasha Ruri**: I'm glad that you think this new ficlet is interesting, and odd, which I've always taken as a compliment when applied.  The double-plot thing is going to continue until the final chapter as it keeps things interesting for me as well as adding a bit of a spin on the fic as a whole.

**DreamingChild:**  'What makes Bakura so heartless' in this fic?  Ah, the Big Question.  It's one of the reasons I did this fic actually.  You see, in all my stories Bakura is 'evil' to a degree but he's also lovable.  His antics are amusing or fascinating and his quippy one-liners are a source of amusement and liking for a reader.  We empathise with him, like you said.  This happens in a hell of a lot of other fictions on this site.  I wanted to try a different approach, make him as cold and deadly as he was in the original YuGiOh material, create an object of malice that could be hated for what he really is.  The checkbook scene was exactly as you stated: it intensified his coldness.  He doesn't care about the people around him, only about manipulating them for his gain.  As for Bakura seeing Ryou's 'death' (he didn't die, I'll clear that up now.  More like a temporary vegetable) as a waste, it would have referred to the loss of such a formerly powerful tool for no apparent reason, from him trying to wield him as he had done in the past.  Bakura gained nothing from Ryou's gross mental trauma which rendered him useless, thus it was a waste.  I must say that you're a very insightful reviewer, and I greatly appreciated your comments.

**Krisskittie:**  Person being tortured is Yami?  Well, there are so many twists ahead that that simple 'fact' might get boggled somewhere.  Yami's Soul Room isn't in Yugi's head anymore, no, as the process happened to both former spirits.  Yami's on his own now, although he does retain Shadow Magic.  This would lead to the question of why Bakura isn't using monsters yet; it's more fun this way.  I get to have him with a ball-bearing whip.  What more do you want?

**Original Sin: Chapter 3**

"Bakura, please…"

It gurgles now through bubbles like its eyes, pleading.  I haven't heard it plead yet.  Such an interesting development.  It's questioned, accused and threatened 'Bakura', but never pleaded with him.  Stumbled over its pride before it could get to the words.  Now pride has stumble over blood and pain.  A big change over a short time, or however long has passed.  Fascinating.

Moving closer to it, I see my shadow cast across it from the swinging light above us.  I can't see why it would be swinging; I haven't touched it, and it can't.  Maybe the whip's movements through the air made it swing, made small ripples and little breezes that pushed the bulb to the side, momentum taking over later.  My shadow swings a little with it and I think I might sway to keep up.  Swaying highlights how firmly my boots are sticking to the floor though, immersed in gore.  I don't like the sound of my swaying.

It coughs, spraying more blood onto my left shoe, the toe of it only a few inches from its face.  Changes the colour of my boots.  I didn't tell it to do that, didn't make it.  It moves in on itself when I mindlessly pull my foot back away from its mouth, the audacious movement urging me to send my foot solidly, angrily, into its ribs.

It doesn't make a sound at that. Certainly looks like it wants to; wants to groan, scream, howl, wrap snappy little fingers around my throat until the joints turn white.  But it doesn't.  It barely moves aside from the jerk my foot caused as it dented into its flesh.  

Its ribs are soft, I noticed.  Broken and malleable.  I think it's dying.    Did I want that?  Do I actually want it dead?  Why am I hurting this poor thing?  Why do I torture this creature that is hardly my size with friends and a destiny?  I don't have to...

A whimper escapes it, one that sounded like it was meant to remain trapped.  So pitiful, so much so that I should pity it.  Kneeling down with care, the solid grains of dirt biting through my trousers into my knees, I place the weapon down behind me.  It 'clinks' down into the spattered pool of crimson, washes of it spread out thinly in some places where it has been smeared by the creature's writhing.  

It looks confused as well as afraid now, which seems to make it look even more afraid than before.  Ah, the beads of the whip are coiled about me, the darkened pearls lying just before its eyes.  I pull them away with care, never lifting them from the ground.  

Reaching out pale hands to it, I ignore its flinch of pain and begin to pry away shreds of its clothing.  There's so much damage here it's hard to tell what's flesh and what's cloth.  I make a mistake in pulling at a shred that comes away with difficulty, only realising that I got it wrong when the creature manages a shriek.  Poor thing.  I soothe it with a callused hand, smearing red down its pale cheek.  It closes its eyes against me, in bliss perhaps. I don't know.  I don't care.

****

Bakura didn't sleep when he got back from Ryou's house.  His mind was painfully alert, snapping from one idea to another with a clarity that intrigued him.  It was in part due to his fruitless violation of his Hikari's mind some hours ago, but mostly from the excitement.  He had a clear idea of what he was going to do now, which made it all more tangible, more real.  More horrifying in its starkness.

The music was playing again, the stereo set to loop over and over.  The lights were still soft and unobtrusive, and he'd gotten out brandy now, celebrating the progression of events.

He had returned home only briefly from Ryou's, checking his e-mails and setting up a trade for later in the week to further finance his weaponry for this task.  Then, he had walked another mile to Malik's home, breaking in when the bike grumbled to life and tore away from sight.  The book hadn't been hard to find; it had an aura of power and potential.  It hadn't been hard to steal either, and now it sat next to the papers with their carefully balanced figures, a glass of honeyed liquid holding the page open.

There were some other books dotted around now as well, small and marked, unwavering lines from a pen underlining the most significant of the old and powerful words.  Malik would never have assumed that the Ring spirit would go to such lengths to cross-reference, to be sure.  But Bakura had made mistakes in the past, big ones, and after being burnt that many times he had learnt.  He had decided that he was going to research and carry out all of this meticulously or not at all.  And under the circumstances, meticulous was more fun.  

Meticulous meant a lot time being spent, time spent softening flesh and quivering a mind, savouring every moment like a sip of water with a gasp of air.  Like wine has to be smelt before tasted to be appreciated fully, water has to be taken with air to get a full sense of its freshness.  And blood must be spilt slowly to take in every pattern the rivulets make.  It's very difficult to put it back in and start over.

Pressing down lightly on the edge of the page, Bakura lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip of the warm liquid before placing it back down, the ring of moisture matching the base of the glass perfectly once again.  Casting his eyes back across the dried pages to the spell, he ran the tip of his finger further down the list.  The paper surrounding the first five ingredients and incantations had already been sullied, notes from his other books decorating the elegant scripture with a sharper style.  This one was problematic though.  He'd heard of it, certainly used it, but he couldn't see how it worked in this context.  It didn't quite fit with the rest of the list.  It was too destructive.  

The answer slotted into place minutes later as his hand laced the small cold glass and the violins reached another crescendo to be supported by trombones and a deep steady drum.  Bakura's face belayed no surprise, no betrayal; indeed it belayed nothing.  Instead, a soft smile eventually graced his features and he picked up the pencil again.  Now he wrote in hard deliberate strokes, the damning letters two fonts larger than their counterparts.  Placing the instrument back down parallel to the exposed centimetre of leather cover, Bakura regarded the new word next to the problematic ingredient.  It read 'Penalty'.

****

Bakura finally slept after this discovery, choosing to consider it in his subconscious whilst he dreamt and then tackle it afresh in a few hours time.  It certainly seemed more sensible than latching onto the precious snippet of inspiration and milking it for everything that it was worth with a pounding headache and burning eyes.

He slept easily; comforted that there was a purpose and a plan to his actions when he awoke.  He only slept enough to refresh himself though, opting to sleep for short periods frequently and remaining at peak efficiency rather than becoming steadily lethargic and then useless for up to six hours.  

It was just after noon when he arose, and he took his time to prepare some tea and eat an apple.  When he finally returned to the desk, he was pleased to see that it was exactly as he had left it scant hours ago.  He knew there was no reason why it would change at all; it was simply a residual feeling from when he had lived with Ryou.  His Hikari was always carelessly knocking his stations of work and disturbing the instruments, the papers, the light, and it always irritated him beyond imagining.  Now he was free from that and he still delighted in it.  Still found it novel. 

He regarded the sharp word, defined from the rest on the page.  Sliding into the seat, the china of the teacup clinking gently as it settled on the desk, Bakura placed a hand to his face and settled his upper lip in the space of flesh between his thumb and forefinger.   He was still eerily calm about the discovery, something that surprised him considering that he had been pondering it whilst he ate his apple, cleaned himself and changed his clothes.  Perhaps it was because it had come as no surprise that he found himself so detached and resigned.  Malik had tricked him.

Bakura was oddly pleased that he had picked up on this before he could become burnt this time.  His meticulousness had paid off and had left him in a superior position.  He was still going to carry through with what Malik had asked of him; there was no reason now for him not to and he wanted the Rod.  The penalty could be worked around, that was no problem.

Malik had been partially honest when he had told Bakura that he would be a conduit through which the Pharaoh's Power passed before reaching himself.  What he had failed to mention was that the spell demanded a price, as everything in the universe tends to demand in some way or another.  Love demanded sacrifice, money demanded effort and the Pharaoh's Power demanded sanity.  In this form the spell's penalty would be negligible, but that was plants.  Draining away something as enormous as the Pharaoh's Power would have an infinitely more profound impact.

It seemed a fair trade in Bakura's mind.  As the tormenter inflicted pain upon the Pharaoh, his magic would flare to protect him on a minimalist level –to slow bleeding and encourage clotting for example- and with the aid of the spell, the exposed magic would be captured and channelled through the tormenter and into the original spell caster.  However, when it passed through the living conduit, it would take something away for it's trouble.  A proportionate aspect of that which makes coherent thought possible.  And as more pain was inflicted and more magic exported, the inflictor would become increasingly unstable to a degree where they single-mindedly caused their own destruction.

An interesting thesis, and one that posed something of a problem to Bakura whom had been quite looking forward to forcing the Pharaoh into submission.  But every puzzle had a solution, every cage a weak bar, and it took a pleasingly short amount of time for Bakura to imagine a way to skirt this problem.  It was naively simple but still doable, with the correct spell.  Everything seemed to be hinging upon spells at the moment.

To get the job done and retain his sanity, Bakura would simply get someone else to do the dirty work for him.  They would be the tormentor, the conduit, the lunatic in the end.  And he would watch, collect the Rod and walk away feeling contented.  It would be tricky though.

Bakura didn't have many friends through choice, which although saving on inconvenience previously now presented something of a problem.  He would have to force someone to perform this act, at least in the beginning.  As more power was stolen, their world would steadily deteriorate until it was just torture and blood and then he'd have very little input.

A mind slave was too obvious an approach although the basic premise held merit.  He didn't have the skills or equipment to control another in the way that Malik could anyway, but he could improvise with the skills he did have.  He could detach parts of his metaphysical self, break away small bits of his essence and hide them away in useful places.  

He was still waiting for the opportunity when the piece he had hidden in the Puzzle would come, although with Malik's scheme potentially being played out he now doubted that that time would ever come.  Still, there was no sense in wasting that which he didn't really need and would be little more than a distraction from the more important things happening at the moment.

Still, he could use this skill now.  If he transported a large enough part of himself into another, he could integrate his intentions and desires into the other's personality. They'd willingly do his bidding, and it would be their mind that suffered.  He would only exist in their mind as a powerful temptation, a guiding force undermining every other thought they had.  His own body would still be under his control, his mind primarily where it should be, but his desires would be displaced.  Even if it failed, which it shouldn't do, it would be a very interesting experience.

Opening his mouth around the bit of flesh it rested against, Bakura closed it again thoughtfully and used his free hand to trace the word, feeling the miniscule indents the dried inks rested in, driven into the aged paper.  Like river scars mottling a land of a long-dead stream.

He'd have to choose someone appropriate for this task.  He'd have to select them carefully.  It would obviously need to be someone close to the Pharaoh, someone he trusted enough to be close.  They couldn't be of an exceptionally strong mind, had to be fairly strong physically and preferably inexperienced in matters such as these.  

It didn't take long for the perfect person to come to mind, and Bakura smiled about his hand.  The weapons would arrive tomorrow so if he did this today, he could begin almost immediately.  He already had a suitable location for his games to take place in, and now all he needed was the players.

****

The group was huddled like frightened sheep, or so they appeared from Bakura's vantage point and cynical mind in the alleyway across the street.  It may have been a sign of their close relationships, their bonds of trust and friendship.  Bakura preferred to consider them as sheep.  They were easier to penetrate in his mind if he did that.

They seemed to be moving into a shop, his chosen target lingering towards the back but still too integrated into the group to be picked off without notice.  He'd need to lure it away to snatch it.  Clenching his fists and closing his eyes, Bakura forced the Ring into hiding before summoning strength from it, forcing a mask across his features and dragging his hair down from its horns and peaks into a smoother entity.  It was harder to do this now, requiring more energy and he wouldn't be able to keep it up for countless days as he had before.  He'd only need the disguise for a few minutes at most.  It had to be completed first though.

Not hesitating a moment, Bakura moved deeper into the alley to the oblong metal drainpipe that ran down the wall of one building, positioning himself at its corner.  Taking a firm grip of it with both hands to test its stability, he then snapped his head back and forward in a sharp motion into its surface.  

The skin above his eyebrow split easily, blood gushing as it always does from a head wound into his eyebrow, the hairs guiding the viscous fluid across and eventually down the side of his face.  Stepping away from the pipe, Bakura tore the cuffs of his shirt and ruffled his hair enough to make it appear dishevelled. 

Satisfied, he moved into the street with an exaggerated limp, clutching at his side in a truly dramatic manner.  The scuffing of his shoes on the gravel underfoot had the desired effect; so close to his victim and with its ears so attuned to the world around him, he broke away from the group with a pause and turned to face the white-haired 'teen'.

"Ryou?"  A statement that evolved into an exclamation part way through, and he jogged towards Bakura with concern nibbling at his eyes.  The rest of the group had already gone into the shop and were now quite distracted with the brightly coloured merchandise and appealing slogans.  It was just them outside.

Bakura was aware that he had to be cautious though.  He needed his quarry to be very close for this to work, close enough to touch.  The other was intelligent and would probably scent deceit if he wasn't careful.  He knew of the Ring Spirit's nature and was quite prepared for him.  Bakura was hoping that today was the exception.

"Ryou, are you okay?  What happened?"

Touching him now, large hands guiding his head back so that the taller man could see the split flesh before looking down the alley to his left to see if the perpetrators were still lingering.  They were not.

Allowing himself a smirk that he intended his victim to see, Bakura released the disguise and barely felt the blood-matted hair lifting from his skin and clumping in cluttered spikes.  His right hand snapped about the other's face, grasping at the corner of his bottom jaw and wrenching it to the side hard enough to risk dislocation.  The flare of pain had the desired effect and whilst the other scrunched his face against the sensation, Bakura's other hand snapped up and pricked the skin of his neck with what would appear to be a white tack.

It was in fact a small carving of bone, honed to a point and magically primed.  As quickly as Bakura had accomplished his task he receded, slipping down and back into the alley and hovering at its entrance, watching the other recover.  Unblinking, he raised a steady hand at the man and murmured beneath his breath, the Ring heating and doing the rest.

As expected, his victim straightened and glanced appearing disorientated and bewildered, a stray hand probing the invisible puncture over his artery.  Bakura smiled serenely, flicking his wrists to lower his cuffs and then straightening them blindly.  He'd need to get back and meditate now, focus his essence and then force as much as he could manage through the doorway he had just created in the other's flesh.  A doorway into the blood, the liquid memory of the body, and then a swift journey up to the mind.  He hadn't done this before but he'd been very careful whilst consulting the books and carving the snippet of bone.  It had gone right.  There was no reason it wouldn't have.

In the light, Yugi peered about the shop doorway, squinting down the street in search of his missing party member.  Upon sight, he called out and waved inanely, beckoning his friend inside.  "Hey Honda, you coming in or what?"

Honda glanced about himself a final time with a frown, his fingers needing the warmed flesh on his neck a final time before he lowered his hand.  "Yeah, I'll be there in a sec."

Bakura lowered his hand completely now as well, eyes scanning the sky for the sun and a low noise rumbling from his throat.  That delivery truck should be arriving soon.  He'd have to be back to be ready for the stock and to sign the clipboard after meditating, and he'd already lingered for too long.  There was much to do.

****

Review, ask questions, place yer bets, generally display intelligence and your existence.  Ego is currently a tad shrivelled and needs your help. ;p


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